


And There Were Roses

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Flowers, Fluff, M/M, Plot Advancement Playhouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:15:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And There Were Roses

XIII.

When Dean wakes up and stretches, he is alone. The sun is warm across the floorboards, almost over the bed itself, and he wonders vaguely for a minute what time it is, why he has slept so late.

Then he remembers.

He closes his eyes, digging his fingers into his temples, wishing he had stayed asleep. He hears a creak and whips over on his side, one hand going for the gun under his pillow. 'Fuck!'

Castiel is in the rocking chair by the windows, looking steadily at him. Across his knees is a large bunch of flowers.

'What the fuck are you doing?' Dean relaxes his grip on the handgun and lets it stay under the pillow.

'I was waiting for you to awake.'

'Yeah, great, 'cause that isn't creepy at all.' Dean rubs a hand over his head. Castiel's eyes are still steady on him and he is starting to become increasingly aware that he is still naked. Somehow, Castiel's gaze makes it seem more...obvious. It's as if he can feel the weight of the other man's gaze on his skin and that thought is just too confusing right now. 'Hey, man, can you throw me some clothes?'

'Certainly.' Castiel rises gracefully from the chair, dropping the flowers on the windowsill, and moves to the bureau. He riffles quickly through the drawers and hands Dean a stack of clothes.

Dean manages to slither into his boxer shorts while still under the sheet and throws the bedclothes back to stand up. He gets dressed as quickly as he can, still aware of Castiel watching him, the handprint on his shoulder almost itching under the pressure of his gaze. 'Thanks. Uh – what're the flowers for?'

'You.' Castiel swings back, picks up the bouquet, and holds it out.

Dean stares at him, then at the flowers – roses, he numbly realises – then back at Cas. 'What?'

'They are for you.'

'I...you...you bought me...what?' Dean half-reaches out to take the bouquet, then stops. 'What the hell for? What?'

'They are...an apology.' Castiel is still holding the dark red blooms at arm's length, but he is starting to look dubious.

'An apology,' Dean repeats. Now he's not entirely sure he's woken up after all. Surreptitiously, he pinches the inside of his elbow.

'For last night. I apologise.'

Dean does reach out to take the flowers now, feeling the unexpected weight of them. He looks down, touches the edge of one blossom carefully. They're quite beautiful: a rich, dark crimson with a faint, sweet scent he almost recognizes. He can't say he's taken a lot of interest in flowers over the years but he's sure he's never seen roses like this. 'I...uh...I...huh.'

'They are from the garden of a woman named Jeanne Poisson. She loved her gardens very much and spent much time on the roses. These were among her favorites.'

'I...Okay.' Dean is still staring at the blossoms, trying to convince himself he understands what the hell is going on and failing utterly. 'What the hell is going on? These are...an _apology?_ For what?'

'For last night. I...caused you to remember...painful things. I am sorry for that.'

Castiel sounds stiff, formal, and Dean looks up at him. 'It wasn't your fault. You didn't...do any of it.'

'No. But I caused you pain inadvertently. I...did not wish to do so.' Castiel gestures lamely at the flowers. 'These were...suggested to me. As an apology.'

'As an apology,' Dean echoes. 'Fuck, man, you coulda just said sorry. Instead you stole French flowers?'

'Eighteenth century French flowers.'

'You—what?'

'They are eighteenth century French flowers,' Castiel repeats.

'You're fuckin' me!' Castiel blushes, instantly, hotly, and Dean wants to drop through the floor. 'Uh – I mean – I mean – they're awesome, man. Seriously. They're...they're gorgeous.' He holds them out into the beam of sunlight on the floor and the flowers take on a mesmerizing depth of color, seeming to glow from the inside out almost like candle flames. He turns around and lays them carefully on the bed, making sure the blooms won't be crushed under their own weight, then turns back to Castiel. 'But you didn't have to do that.'

Castiel is frowning at his feet. 'I wanted to. I feel...very badly about last night. I...did not intend to cause you pain.'

Dean crosses the room until he's right in front of Castiel, a little too close, even. Castiel’s eyes are wide, but steady, clear blue. He can smell the faint sweet scent of the roses on the other man's clothes combined with the earthiness that he now knows is always on Cas' skin. He remembers the feeling of Castiel's arm around his shoulders and reaches down, slowly, to take his hand.

Castiel tenses for a minute, but lets Dean thread their fingers together.

Dean raises their hands, looking curiously at their intertwined fingers, tracing Castiel's knuckles with his thumb, feeling the roughness of his skin. 'You didn't need to bring me eighteenth century roses, Cas.'

'I wanted to.' Castiel sounds slightly breathless.

'Okay.' Dean presses his thumb to the soft space between Castiel’s first finger and thumb, squeezing slightly. 'But next time you could just maybe not vanish in the middle of the night.’ He’s amazed that his voice is so steady. He would have sworn that was going to come out like a twelve-year-old asking out his first date. Instead – he sounds like he absolutely knows what he’s doing. It’s kind of amazing because he’s pretty sure he has no idea. There are nasty clouds of memory swirling in the back of his head but he can grit his teeth and ignore them for the minute. And the scent of roses is heavy in the warm air.

‘Y'know--' He can't resist smirking a little at Castiel's expression which manages to combine bliss and bewilderment in equal quantities. '--it might be simpler.'

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "And There Were Roses," Woods Tea Company.
> 
> Additionally, full points if you get the _Doctor Who_ reference. :) In case you need a hint, I was toying with the idea of titling this section was: "Lonely Little Boy."


End file.
